Manchester's Melting Pot

Dec. 23, 2024

 

In the summer of 1974, my Mom uprooted my five siblings and me from our home in northeastern New Jersey, a stone’s throw from the George Washington Bridge, and relocated the clan to Manchester’s North End. For Mom, it was a homecoming. She was raised by my Grandmere and Grandpere Pare on Lafayette Street, on the city’s predominantly French-Canadian West Side.

 

Mom’s brothers – my Uncle Arthur and Uncle Bill – were a pair of studs, playing football and baseball for the Giant Killers of St. Joseph High School for Boys (now the co-ed Trinity High School). William “Bill” Pare later played football at Fordham, and was inducted into the Trinity’s Athletic Hall of Fame in 1988. But it was my Uncle Art, who would go on to become a Jesuit priest, who would change the trajectory of my athletic life.

 

While a novitiate in Beirut, Lebanon, the future Father Pare was introduced to global “football,” the sport we call soccer. He was absolutely smitten. When Mom suggested that we were interested in football, Art quickly interjected: “Jane, you really need to have the boys play soccer.” It was a serendipitous moment in my sporting “career.”

 

In the early 1970s, New Jersey was a true social melting pot, an early hotbed for American soccer. My brothers and I were incredibly fortunate to meet a remarkable coach, Joseph Camilleri, a native of Malta who founded the Leonia Soccer Association a few years earlier. We had the O’Connors – the sons of Irish and French-Canadien parents – plus Italians, Greeks, Germans, eastern Europeans, Central Americans, and South Americans. The teams reflected the extensive ethnic diversity of Leonia, which I loved.

 

When we moved to New Hampshire, following my sophomore year in high school, I had no idea what to expect. Though we regularly visited Grandmere and Grandpere during my childhood, I didn’t know many other kids. I couldn’t wait for Central High’s soccer practices to start, so I could meet a few fellow students before classes began. Given my somewhat limited experiences with local teens, I expected a fairly lily-white turnout. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

 

School athletic teams, as anyone who has played knows, are microcosms, small groups within larger groups. We represent the schools we play for, but aren’t always representative. Manchester of 1974 wasn’t nearly as ethnically diverse as it is today, but our soccer team certainly was. It was like the United Nations. We had names from various and sundry backgrounds, including French-Canadian (Gelinas, Cusson, Chaput, Benard), Greek (Kaliora, Lekkas, Venagas), and Equadorian (Carachuelo). We had a Luce, Larea, Demenchuk, Zito, Witcher, Johnson, Hamilton, and Connelly. Our goalkeeper was a studious senior with All-American good looks named Doug Zesiger. But the unquestioned stars were a pair of Colombian imports – Jimmy Sierra and Henry Saldariaga – and a wonderfully talented and comical Haitian, Danny Lascase.

 

“My first experience with real soccer came the summer following my freshman year at Central,” says Steve Long, a fellow junior on that 1974 team. “I played a game on a team that was shorthanded, and mostly manned by folks from the Greek community. I credit those guys with my introduction to the sport, since they encouraged me to keep playing.”

 

While Central soccer teams had rarely been anything special, Coach Robert Veilleux and the rest of us quickly realized this squad could be dominant. Except for one early season hiccup against powerhouse Alvirne squad, we ran the table, capturing the city championship with a 12-1 mark. Meanwhile, I developed the useful talent of cursing in five different languages.

 

“Hey, No. 1,” a ref once snapped at me during a game. “Repeat what you just said to me. In English.”

 

“I can’t,” I honestly replied, smiling and running away. “I have no idea what it means.”

 

What we all knew, almost intrinsically, was that soccer was game that rewarded teamwork. When all 11 players were on the same page, working as a unit, we were all but unstoppable. And we enjoyed every moment.

 

“I agree it was a special group,” says Long. “As a young soccer player, I really admired the seniors on the team, and loved joking around with my peers.

 

“I also learned a lot about being a good team member,” he says. “The 1974 team was my first brush with ethnic diversity. That helped prepare me for joining the Peace Corps and meeting my wife-to-be from Mumbai in graduate school. As a provincial kid from a New Hampshire mill town, I wouldn’t have gotten very far without my exposure to the ethnic diversity that came from playing on that 1974 team.” 

 

Today, I can’t help but think what we could all learn from my 1974 team. A half-century after that magical fall, I still look back fondly on that collection of boys who took to the rocky pitch alongside Hillside Junior High to play “the beautiful game,” and played together beautifully.

 

FINIS

 

A version of this essay first appeared in the September 2024 issue of New Hampshire Magazine.

Magic Bus – My Adventures with Grandmere

Dec. 22, 2024

                            Illustration by Peter Noonan

 

During a recent visit to Boston, I squeezed down the crowded aisle of an MBTA bus before exiting. I felt badly for the customers waiting curbside, their faces masked in resignation. Boston busses are a mode of transportation, nothing more. They aren’t fun. The other riders weren’t reveling in the experience.

 

What a difference 50 years can make. Then, riding the bus was pure adventure for me, made all the more enjoyable by a special traveling companion, my Grandmère Paré.

 

Grandmère, my maternal grandmother, introduced me to the art of bus riding before I started school. Though I grew up in New Jersey, our family often made the pilgrimage to Mom’s hometown of Manchester, N.H., and my grandparents’ home on Pickering Street. Here, during the 1960s and early ‘70s, I learned the fundamentals of big-city public transportation.

 

My grandmother got her license late in life. She was almost 70 before finally taking her driver’s test, after my grandfather suffered a heart attack. Still, Grandmère rarely drove. Taking the bus downtown – to the Queen City’s beating heart – seemed more reasonable, more practical. She let someone else do the driving.

 

The best bus rides came during winter, with whispers of light snow snaking across the freshly plowed Manchester streets. Bundled in layers – it would take us forever to get dressed, with rubber buckle-up boots and heavy snow pants – Grandmère, my siblings and I would shuffle down to the bus stop on Webster Street.

 

At least two of us would hold tightly to Grandmère’s hands. She always wore fine black gloves that she somehow never misplaced. I remember the bright green woven cap that kept her coiffured silver hair in place, and a large black and green overcoat that brought the ensemble together.

 

Her cheeks, like the young faces of her entourage, turned a healthy red in the brisk winter gusts. Though well into her 60s, Grandmère had the energy of a woman a third her age, and our walk to the bus stop was more of a race. All five of us would typically tire well before she did.

 

Climbing aboard the bus, my stubby Irish nose barely rose above the coin box. Grandmère would converse cheerily with the driver while we fumbled for the change hidden in our mitten-covered hands.

 

I never questioned whether Grandmère actually knew the driver, or the dozens of passengers she would greet with a crisp “Hello” as she ushered us to an available seat. I just figured she must. Her dazzling, infectious smile was always returned in kind. The passengers probably weren’t elated about having these rambunctious youngsters interrupting the serenity of a quiet bus ride downtown, but Grandmère always won them over. Her exuberance was contagious.

 

Like Grandmère, I couldn’t sit still. Usually, I’d try to coax a neighboring passenger into light-hearted conversation, boasting about a new toy or inquiring about this and that as Grandmère tried to corral me back to my seat. Those were especially prized moments, when just the two of us – Grandmère and me – rode to town and back. I loved the powerful, steady hum of the bus engines, and the excitement of discovering a new city with Grandmère, with stores to explore and restaurants to sample.

 

In the 1980s, Grandmère still enjoyed remarkably good health. When she celebrated her 90^th birthday, she didn’t look a day past 70. She eventually moved from the house that my grandfather built to an apartment complex off River Road. But she kept riding the bus, maintaining a fabulous rapport with other passengers, bringing many into her ever-expanding circle of friends.

 

It’s been decades – a lifetime, really – since I last rode a Manchester Transit bus. We lost Grandmère in 1994, at the age of 98. I miss the sublime sense of adventure of those wintry days on the Webster Street bus. But I cherish the memories.

 

FINIS

 

This essay originally appeared in the December 2024 issue of New Hampshire Magazine.

 

Joyeux Noel!

 

December, 2024

 

To all our friends and family,

 

Happy holidays from 11 Homestead Circle in Hamilton. It’s been a busy, and eventful, 2024. 

 

The biggest “family news” is that we’ll be officially welcoming a new member 2025, as Maddi and her partner Kate are now engaged, and will be tying the knot next October. Can’t wait to get the entire family together. Maddi continues her admirable work at Hopeful Journeys with kids on the autism spectrum while pursing her master’s degree in special education. She continues to coach volleyball with a local elite program, and plays alongside Kate – a middle school teacher, Buffalo native, and a proud member of Bills Mafia – for Amoskeag Rugby (the squad had a great fall season, making it to their league’s championship game). It’s been a blast watching her playing this new sport! We love having both Kate and Maddi – as well as their wonderful rescue hounds, Alfie and Bruce – close by, and we get to see them fairly often, which is always fun.

 

Brynne marked her 2^nd anniversary as a full-time resident of Austin, Texas, where she’s keeping the locals happy serving up craft cocktails as a bartender at the high-end van Zandt Hotel as well as a new spot, Verbena. She and her playful Great Pyrenees named Mr. Reddington (“Red” for short) are always up for company, like a visit from Grandmom this past fall (photo below). She also joined Maddi and Kate in Colorado for the surprise proposal. Brynne’s gotten into running and continues to bike, which has been a great way to stay in and shape and expand her circle of friends. We plan to visit this February, shortly after her 26^th birthday, to cheer Brynne on in her first marathon. Miss that girl like crazy, but absolutely love the phone calls!

 

Here at home, Lauri continues to hold everything together (we celebrated 30 years of wedded bliss this summer!). While the loss of her father in late 2023 was a tremendous setback, Lauri continues to care for her family, her friends, and her Mass General Brigham patients with uncommon grace and dignity. I’m truly amazed how she manages to squeeze so much love and kindness into every day. Her faithful commitment to cycling has me concerned that when I do eventually get back in the saddle, I’ll never catch her. And at this time of year, I always delight in how Lauri transforms our little cottage into a winter wonderland. I’m forever grateful for having this beautiful woman as my partner in life. 

 

As for the pet contingent, our mousers Molly and Izzy turned 15 this year, meaning the local mice have much less to worry about. For outdoor cats, though, these sisters are impressive. Our rescue Hobey (“Hobart of the Homestead”) is still the same lovable, goofy hound he was when we brought him home in the fall of 2016. He’s great company for this work-from-home hubby.

 

Though I hit the Big 6-7 in October, I’m not quite ready to cash in my writing chips. Work continues to find me, thanks to a terrific group of editors, and I still love the act of writing (looking for work is another matter, but that’s different story). I’m trying to abide by my father in-law’s mantra to “do interesting work for interesting people.” That, and striving to get back on the bike and shedding a few extra pounds (OK, more than a few) in 2025, so I can resume my favorite pastime of chasing after my wife. We postponed my planned spine surgery in early October to a later date, giving me time to trim down and get stronger. Fingers crossed.

 

As for the New Year, our wish is that 2025 brings us all moments of magic that we can enjoy and celebrate – from simple Solo Stove fires on the back deck to long walks on Singing Beach to Myopia polo matches to spontaneous gatherings of family and friends – all reminders of the all-important ties that bind us together. We are living in uncertain times, which of course is when our faith in one another matters most. I hope we can see you all sometime soon. Joyeux Noel!

 

Lots and lots of love, with big hugs and kisses,

-Brynne, Maddi, Lauri, and Brion (and Hobey, Izzy, and Molly)